


for auld lang syne, my dear.

by thepapernautilus



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Bittersweet, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Jealousy, Light Bondage, Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Spoilers, Starlight Celebration (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:15:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28305906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepapernautilus/pseuds/thepapernautilus
Summary: “So what is your answer, hero?” He crooned. “Will you deny me your company, even now, when you yearn for companionship so dearly?” He leaned close. “Unless you wish to entertain the company of the Exarch’s, of course. Far be it from me to stop you.”He’d probably be more pleasant company,” she growled.“Perhaps that is true—but would he be as interesting of company?” Emet-Selch countered.“Alright,” she whispered, as if afraid someone would overhear. “I’m yours.”Emet-Selch comforts a lonely Warrior during the First's winter celebrations.
Relationships: Azem/Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch, One-Sided WoL/Exarch, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Original Character(s), Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 9
Kudos: 83
Collections: Bookclub Winter Fic Exchange 2020





	for auld lang syne, my dear.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AzureSummoner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AzureSummoner/gifts).



> I was so excited (and nervous!) when I found out who I was writing for; ["The Red String of Fate"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22276666/chapters/53199994) was the very first FFXIV fanfic I ever read, and I've loved and admired [AzureSummoner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AzureSummoner/pseuds/AzureSummoner)'s work for a long time (well, six months _feels_ like a long time!) I hope I was able to do right by Kotori, and I hope this will brighten your Starlight. Thank you so much for writing your wonderful fics, and I hope I can return even part of what you've given me.  
> And thank you for giving me an excuse to bully catboy, haha. It was too fun. 🖤

Over one hundred years of Mitron and Loghrif’s efforts had been overturned. It was evident in every wintry zephy that chased nearly everyone indoors in blustering bursts, plain in the warmed cider prepared from the mealy, shriveled apples of the First and the espresso con panna enjoyed by the denizens of the Wandering Stairs. And with these unusual bitter winds came something far more insidious, far more definitive proof almost _everything_ the Convocation had worked for was lost—

Snow.

Fluttering, whimsical scraps of cotton drifting down, coating the iron-and-glass spires of the Crystarium with a thin powder. No more than an ilm of accumulation, but it was enough for children to scrape up in tiny, mittened hands and throw at one another, building an army of tiny snowmen across the Exedra, little soldiers set to guard the hallowed Crystal Tower and their vaunted Exarch.

 _It would probably do better than the usual rabble,_ Emet-Selch groused to himself.

He was not a man predisposed to bouts of self-pity, but it was growing difficult to _not_ succumb to such infernal banalities. Persephone—that is, The Warrior—no, damn it all, _Kotori_ —had slaughtered nigh every Lightwarden in the realm, save for Kholusia’s. And while Emet-Selch certainly had his own plans, plans he was _certain_ would succeed, watching all of the careful work put into place over centuries be overturned by a rag-tag group of Hydaelyn’s chosen was dampening his holiday spirit.

Not to mention the matter of Persephone.

The Fourteenth had loved winter festivities. No matter what shape they took, she was a careful observer of all, delighting in every culture’s traditions and bringing bounties of holiday whimsy with her when she returned to him. Filled his office with boughs of holly and fragrant pine, perched on his desk like a winter nymph and fed him sugared confections.

He hadn’t seen the point in any of it—but whatever she found beauty in, by virtue of her presence, he could not help but fall in love with it too.

But that valiant, _blinding_ soul had been spliced into fourteen slivers. And while she was half-way to becoming whole, it did not seem that Kotori carried any of Persephone’s memories.

Merely the ghost of her spirit, haunting the halls of a once great cathedral.

A grotesque imitation of beauty forever lost.

He was a moth-to-flame with her. When those cerulean eyes—the precise same shade as Persephone’s, despite it all—glanced over to him, he could not help but indulge her questions, her wry remarks. Tolerated the insufferable company of her companions to watch her work.

And when he wasn’t accompanying her on her adventures, so studiously undoing all that Mitron and Loghrif had done over the years, he was watching from a distance. Sometimes he took different forms, but usually he merely selected a high vantage point and watched the show unfold.

 _This_ particular display was beginning to grate on his nerves.

It was the The First’s first winter in a century, and they had no such concept of _solstice_ or even Starlight celebrations. But it was bone deep in them to celebrate _something._ The Exarch and the Cabinet of Curiosities’ Moren had conjured a handful of books on long-forgotten winter celebrations, and presented them to the Crystarium’s people for their perusual. Mulled wine was prepared, every savored morsel of harvest brought out and prepared in such a feast that _almost_ made his own mouth water.

And while the Scions’ had thrown themselves into these strange, patchworked celebrations, the Warrior lingered back, an inexorable sorrow on her face.

Displacement.

Homesickness.

_Loneliness._

He wavered between going to her and maintaining his distance. Eorzea was no more her home than Norvrandt was—she had no _memory_ of her true home, _their_ home, and thus he could barely comprehend why she would be sorrowful over such a pitiful imitation.

But here he was, the last vestige of his heart ripped asunder by the sorrow in those eyes.

Well, perhaps they were both owed their moments of sentimentality.

He was perched on the rafters of the Musica Universalis, watching the denizens of the Wandering Stairs. Kotori had set herself up at a table off to the side, nursing a mug of warm liquid—some of that mealy apple cider, from the looks of it.

He expected one of the twins, tender newly-named Ryne, or perhaps even the ever-mistrustful Thancred Waters to come to her aid.

No.

Cloaked and hooded, the Crystal Exarch took his own mug of cider and sat opposite her.

Perhaps it would have merely been amusing, watching his fumbling attempts at comforting the Warrior. His ardor for her was as plain as the streak of crystal across his face, _almost_ as plain as his so-called mysterious identity. Aged though he was, there was a youthful earnestness to the way he spoke to her.

He spoke in low tones, barely discernable over the din of the celebrations. Now, _that_ wouldn’t do. He teleported himself with a _crack,_ coming into form at the opposite side of the bar, turned away so as to not make himself noticeable.

“What were the Source’s celebrations like?” The Exarch asked patiently.

 _Why don’t you tell her, Exarch?_ Emet-Selch snarked to himself.

“The Saints of Nymeia give gifts to children. We put up trees with lights, give each other gifts…” Kotori duked her head. “It is… not so much the traditions themselves that mean so much to me, but the _feeling_ of it.” Her voice took a hushed quality. “A feeling of belonging.”

“Ah.” He heard a shuffle; if he didn’t know better, he’d swear the Exarch had leaned _closer._ “That is a feeling I know all too well. Is there anything I— _we_ can do to make you feel more comfortable?”

The Warrior laughed, a charming, feckless noise that set his heart racing despite himself. A shallow imitation of Persephone’s, but _ah,_ it ached all the same. “I daresay you have already gone to such lengths, Exarch. You have my gratitude. Don’t let my sour mood ruin yours.”

“Perhaps there is… _something_ that could be done,” The Exarch murmured. It was a low tone Emet-Selch hadn’t heard before, one that set him on edge. Intimate and gentle. And it dropped lower still. “If you would indulge me.”

Impulsiveness overtook Emet-Selch in a wild rash. He didn’t want to hear her answer, and he would rather suffer another fulm of this dreadful snow than let such a charade continue.

Holiday spirit be damned.

Emet-Selch unfolded his long body from his chair, moving in slow, languid movements to stand before the Warrior’s table, bowing low towards her. “Warrior. Exarch. Forgive me, but I couldn’t help but overhear your oh-so _interesting_ conversation.”

“Of course,” the Exarch sighed. “Couldn’t help yourself from eavesdropping.” His back straightened, every ilm of the man bristling with scarcely concealed dislike.

He watched Kotori smile at him despite herself, struggling to contain it with a curious wrinkle of her nose. It inflamed a certain satisfaction in him, something primeval and downright brutish in nature.

“Was I, daresay, _interrupting_ something?” he grinned at the Exarch.

He could tell the Exarch, ever the calculator, was waging his chances.

And by the grimace on his face, the man had found himself on the losing end.

“Nothing at all,” The Exarch clarified, nodding towards Kotori. “I hope you enjoy the winter festivities, Warrior,” he said with genuine warmth. He turned towards Emet-Selch, struggling with himself for a moment, before inclining his head with stiff politeness and turning awayy towards Captain Lyna.

He almost felt bad for the man.

Emet-Selch lifted the vacant chair before setting it besides Kotori’s.

_Almost._

“Surprised to see you here amongst the _mortals,_ ” Kotori sniffed.

Her hair, a tumble of ash brown, was pulled over one shoulder, snowflakes nestling in the dark curls. He should see her slender shoulders shiver beneath her thin pink coat—she likely hadn’t prepared for such cold.

“It’s all your fault, you know. Nothing else to _do,_ since you haven’t started hunting the next Warden,” Emet-Selch sulked. “Forcing me to watch such…” he waved his hand, indignant at the festivities, “a veritable _party_ over all our work being undone.”

Kotori crossed her legs—long, lean, _sensuous;_ he could hardly help himself from noticing _—_ beneath the table. “The Exarch says all the necessary preparations are nearly finished—not that they’ve told _me_ anything,” she huffed.

“Ah, yes, I forgot. The poor convalescent.”

She bristled. “I feel _fine,_ thank you, Ascian.”

“We’re back to _Ascian_ now, are we?” Emet-Selch purred, leaning close to her, letting his breath ghost across the flushed shell of her ear. “You break my heart, godkiller.”

“It’s not as if you have one,” she retorted.

Still-frozen flurries linger on the fringe of her hair. Unbidden, he reached up with a careful, slow, gloved hand and brushed them to the side. Her azure eyes never left his, growing wider with each of his cautious movements.

“If your heart can break,” he rumbled, “rest assured, so can mine, hero.”

Something flickered over her features then. He was leaning quite close to her, close enough to inhale the fragrance of her—a flower long extinct, he the only one who could remember it even existed. She canted her head to the side, eyes flicking down for a moment before meeting his once more.

Considering.

Waging her chances, just as the Exarch did. 

“Perhaps I might be able to brighten your holiday, hero, by eschewing it in its entirety.”

She cocked a brow. “Go on.”

“You’re positively shivering out here. Let’s go… somewhere _else._ Somewhere warm. Fine furred blankets. Excellent wine and all the food you could like. And, dare I say, the promise of _stimulating_ conversation from yours truly.”

“And, pray tell, where _is_ such a place?”

“Ah, the caveat. I cannot tell, and _you_ cannot ask.” He grinned at her. Her cheeks were red as summer-ripened apples, and he couldn’t help himself but stroke his thumb across one in a broad, smooth stroke, savoring the silk of her skin. “How about it? Up for a little illicit rendezvous, hero?”

Kotori hesitated. The celebrations grew louder around them, firecrackers let off in great whistles and shrieks. From the corner of the eye Emet-Selch could see the Exarch warily watching them from a distance, a distinctive protective grit to the man.

He might steal her away right from under his nose, but it would only be because _she_ desired it.

“How will I get back?” Kotori finally spoke.

“I’ll take you back whenever you like—let’s say at the midnight bell. No one need ever worry.”

“And how can I trust you?” She narrowed her eyes.

“Well,” Emet-Selch drawled, deftly picking up her abandoned drink and taking a sip of it—too sweet, the spices applied with a fumbling hand; he set it down. “You _can’t._ Such is the rib, as they say. I have promised no harm shall come of you, and why should you trust me? But, you are the esteemed Ascian-slayer. As fearsome as that Black Wolf of yours.” He watched with pride as she bristled. “Why would you fear your own prey?”

“You are not prey,” the Warrior huffed, growing angrier with each word. “It is not hunting, to kill out of self-defense. Which is all any of us have done, when you are so thoroughly dedicated towards killing this star!”

Her voice rang out, the crowds around them falling into a hush. Emet-Selch’s grinned widened at her as she glared at him.

He had her.

“So what is your answer, hero?” He crooned. “Will you deny me your company, even now, when you yearn for companionship so dearly?” He leaned close. “Unless you wish to entertain the company of the Exarch’s, of course. Far be it from me to stop you.”

She cocked her head, tipped her chin. “He’d probably be more pleasant company,” she growled. There was no bite in her tone.

“Perhaps that is true—but would he be as _interesting_ of company?” Emet-Selch countered.

He watched her decide, then and there.

“Alright,” she whispered, as if afraid someone would overhear. “I’m yours.”

* * *

Pale imitation or no—she was surpassingly _fetching_ in his chambers.

She positively _glowed_ with warmth, seated in an oversized wing-backed chair by the roaring fire, her damp coat cast off and hung to dry. She cradled her wine glass with frigid fingers, shivering _still_ despite how bundled she was.

“Cold still?” Emet-Selch frowned. He had discarded his own robes for simple black slacks and a button-down shirt, hoping the removal of his Garlean finery would set her at ease.

“My feet,” she murmured, “won’t warm up for—“

“Allow me,” he said smoothly. He fell to his knees before her, ignoring her surprised squeak as he tugged down her boots, slipping them off before rolling off her thick woolen socks, rubbing warmth back into one small, pale foot and then the other. “You would think human bodies would regulate temperature better,” Emet-Selch snarked. “About to freeze to death before a roaring fire. Preposterous.”

She looked down on him with a soft smile, sending a fresh wave of painful longing through him. “Good thing I have you here.”

He tucked the blanket around her feet before standing, bent over her, noses nearly brushing. “Yes,” he breathed, “lucky indeed.”

She shivered beneath him, but not from the cold. No; her pupils were blown wide, a positively _delicious_ flush high in her cheeks. “You’re too close,” she whispered warningly.

“And yet,” he drew closer _still,_ his nose skimming along hers. “You stay. Why is that, hero?”

While he waited for his answer, he decided to indulge himself in her. Dragging his bare knuckles across her jaw, down the pale column of her neck. He tugged aside her scarf—pale pink, a color that suited her almost as well as it had suited Persephone—to expose the pale cant of her collarbone. He watched as her breath caught, her hands coming up—

But she did not push him away.

One went to his face—small, chilly fingers splayed against his skin, scraped against the stubble of his jaw. The other at his neck, just brushing his nape.

“Did you put something in my wine?” she asked breathlessly.

Emet-Selch scoffed. “ _Really._ You’d accuse me of such a thing!”

“It would explain…” Her eyes darted away, “ _things.”_

“I would never drug you,” he whispered, earnest. “I would rather persuade you with reason and logic—poison is not my weapon of choice. No, rest assured, Kotori,” he watched her flinch at the invocation of her name, pink lips parting, and he leaned close to her ear, nipping the lobe before continuing, “whatever it is you are feeling, it is entirely, wholly _organic.”_

“What am I feeling, then?” she gasped.

“Hmm.” He stood then, brushing his lips over her forehead before sinking into the seat beside her. “I don’t know. You’ll simply have to use your words.”

She took a long swallow of her wine—of _course_ she’d like wine. Did any iteration of Azem, no matter how remote, _not_ crave such a thing?

“How much time do we have?” She blurted.

Emet-Selch gave a glance at the timepiece on the wall. “Two bells.”

She looked down at her hands in her lap. “I assumed you had… something in _mind,_ with bringing me here.”

He quirked a brow at her. “This is _your_ celebration, hero. How would you have us spend it? I can offer ideas, if you like.”

“I fear whatever ideas you might have.”

“Oh,” he gave a dark chuckle. “You think I brought you here to _seduce_ you, hmm?”

“It… crossed my mind,” she admitted. “Fine. What entertainment can I expect from an Ascian, huh?”

“Shall we decide another way?” Emet-Selch presented a deck of cards with one deft movement, laying the stack in her hands. “A simple game of High and Low. You know how to play, yes?”

She ran her fingers absently through the cards. “And what are the stakes?”

“Simple. If I win, we do whatever _I_ want. And if you win, we do whatever _you_ want.”

Kotori narrowed her eyes, never one to be played. “No. You’ll tell me exactly what you’d do before we play. I’ll do the same. And _I_ shuffle the deck.”

“Fine. Fair’s fair. What is your heart’s desire, hero?”

“If I win, you’ll tell me about yourself.” She said it so simply. “Any of my questions, answered honestly.”

“Innocent enough,” he conceded.

“And you?”

“Oh, if _I_ win…”

He leaned close to her again, watching with amusement as the cards stilled in her hand, her breathing growing fast and ragged once more. “If I win,” he told her, “I shall show you _my_ idea of a solstice celebration, and we shall find out _precisely_ what you are feeling between us.”

She looked irritable when he pulled away. “You _are_ trying to seduce me,” she huffed.

She didn’t look as if she minded.

He grinned at her, wolfish and brazen. “Perhaps. You better not lose then, hero.”

“What if I—“

He waved a hand at her, dismissive. “Keep up, will you? I won’t do anything to you against your volition. I am _much_ more interested in your freely-given, willing consent.”

She opened her mouth as if to disagree, before closing it. “I cannot fault you for that,” she muttered. She presented him with three facedown cards, before drawing her own and flipping two up.

Three. Five.

He turned over the first of his.

Seven.

“So,” she smiled. “High or low?”

He _could_ sense the numbers of the cards—if he wanted to.

But he wanted it to be fair.

“High,” he finally said.

She flipped over her last card. Six—making fourteen.

Now his.

Two—and a blessed eight.

Seventeen.

She swore under her breath, sighing. “Damn. My questions will have to wait, I suppose.”

“For someone who throwing _such_ a fuss,” he grinned, “you seem hardly disappointed.”

She treated him to one of those blindingly sweet smiles.

The same ones which left him winded when Persephone gave them.

“Well,” she laughed, “I figured I was winning either way.”

Emet-Selch enough. In a smooth movement he picked her up, ignoring her yelp of surprise as she fitted her in his arms.

“Indeed,” he whispered. “But perhaps the same was as true for me.”

And before she could contemplate matters further, he covered her mouth with his.

He was far from a green lad—between his conquests as Emperor Solus before _and_ after, he had his fill and more of mortal pleasures, sampling everything offered, and finding only the most extreme offered _anything_ for him.

As Amaroutines, the physical bled into the spiritual. Copulation was an all-consuming solar flare, nebulas coming alive and dying in the same night. There were not words sufficient, for what it was like to be inextricably _one._

He and Persephone had been each others one and only, and he had never wished for anything else.

This should bore him—he shouldn’t delight in the warmth of her against him, in her happy little sighs and her tongue sliding over his bottom lip, shouldn’t bother at all in chasing the boozy taste of her like a depraved sommelier.

She was but a shade of Persephone, but even still, a fraction of what she was once was—

She ignited his soul anyway.

He dropped her on his bed—a well-loved affair of dark, dense sheets and hangings—before following her down, covering her body with his. “Tell me again,” he breathed, moving to nip at her jaw, the delicate pallor of her neck “—if you still want this.”

“Please,” Kotori gasped, threading her fingers in his hair, “I want this—want _you.”_

He smirked against her, and bit gently into her neck, delighting in the way she arched against him, thighs spreading easily, the warmth of her core apparent even _now._ He had been fighting an erection the entire evening, and he could feel her arch against him now, doubtless feeling that which he’d struggled to conceal.

“Has anyone ever told you the best way to stay warm, hero?” Emet-Selch drawled as he hooked two fingers into her skin-tight leggings before pulling her smalls and all down to her knees.

She shook her head, leaning back on her arms.

“Crawling inside a bed naked with someone who is already naked.”

She blushed. “Is this your attempt to excuse yourself?”

“Not at all.” He kissed the soft flesh of her thighs, delighting in her soft moans as he nipped and sucked at the flesh, leaving a dozen ruddy marks across her. “Merely a… fringe benefit, as it were.” Tugged her breeches further down, leaving sloppy kisses at the tender flesh behind her knee, the strong swell of her calves. “But,” and he worked his way up again, leaving an impulsive kiss at the top of her apex, right where her downy curls began, “I reckon you’ll be _scorching_ before I’m done with you.”

He pulled off her sweater, dragging his hands from her hips, ribs, lifting it off her arms. “Kotori,” he murmured. Couldn’t help the smile as she shuddered. “Would you indulge me, perhaps?”

“Depends.”

He drew her wrists together, clutching them in one hand. “I would bind you,” he whispered, “leave you helpless to my torment, for your pleasure.” His other hand slid down her panting belly, dipped down between her thighs to tease her—already warm and so _wet_ for him. “Just like this.”

She arched her hips into his hand, keening when he slowly dragged a finger around her pearl—just enough pressure to tease.

“I want it,” she gasped, starved and needy.

He bent down to kiss her, conjuring a thread of coiling, dark aether to twine around her wrists. “Say the word,” he told her, “and I will free you.”

She nodded, eyes wide. Licking her parted lips.

Zodiark, she looked _hungry._

He caressed the heavy swells of her breasts, her nipples hardening against his palm before bending down to pull one into his mouth, laving the swollen hardness, feeling her body contort and squirm beneath him, “Emet—“ she gasped.

He came off her, kissed the center of her sternum. “ _Hades,”_ he breathed against her.

Spoke it to her heart.

He shouldn’t have told her. Their names were secret, personal things.

And she was his sworn enemy, and he her.

But long ago, they had not been so different.

“Hades,” she repeated, dazed. He _shuddered_ as she said it; moved to her other breast, sucking a mark into the pliant flesh.

“ _Hades.”_

His name—his true name, not his title, not Solus—was a melody on her tongue, a long-forgotten song given proper lilt.

More and more, she became less Kotori, and more _Persephone._

He kissed his way back down, to those warm thighs, reacquainting himself to the lovebites he’d left on her. Nuzzled into her, licking a long, wet stripe all the way up her. So wet she was nearly _gushing_ with it, silken as ripened peaches, tasting of the primordial sea.

“So _responsive,”_ he purred as she bucked into him. He slid a finger in her, to the second knuckle, and she clenched, squirmed, impossibly tight around him. “So eager.”

“Please,” she whimpered.

He ran lazy circles around her pearl with his tongue, laving it with a light flick. “Please what? Use your words, my dear.”

Her chest heaved with the effort. “Please,” she pleaded, “kiss me down—“

He dropped a sloppy kiss onto her folds. “But I already am,” he grinned.

She made a noise of frustration low in her throat. “Please, make me—make me come,” she finally blurted, tossing her head to the side.

He chuckled into her. “You need only ask, _hero.”_

He continued his torment, thrusting lazily into her as she arched into his hand, and she made a wild, unfettered noise when he slipped another finger into her, spasming around him, cursing when he dipped down to suck on her pearl once more.

“Could taste you forever,” he murmured around her— _into_ her. And it was the truth. Her breathing was coming in breathy whines, her entire body coiling around him. He was more than happy to bring her to climax, quickening his pace, working a third finger into her, hand practically _dripping_ with her slick—

“Hades!” she begged, “I want— I want _you—“_

 _“_ You have me,” he promised, “you have me—“

“Want you _in_ me—“

He chuckled, giving her a last, lingering kiss. “So needy,” he chided, before coming up to her. She kissed him like she was starving, chasing the taste of herself, her tongue swiping against his, his teeth, greedy little noises coming from her. Hades moved her, admiring how she was so pliant and willing in his arms, turning her on her side, settling behind her. Hurriedly unbuttoned his slacks and brought his cock out, resting himself between her supple cheeks.

She arched against him, making a murmured sound, “now, now, _please—_ “

He nuzzled her hair, pressing a hasty kiss against her ear before slipping into her.

She was smoothest satin, impossibly frictionless as he worked himself in her in slow, lazy strokes. She unfolded like a flower before him, those sounds growing more desperate, more frenetic with each thrust. She was entirely at his whim like this—he nipped and kissed at her ear, one hand curved around her breast, the other slipping between her legs once more, worrying her pearl til she was bucking back against him, driving him another ilm deeper with each movement.

And then he was hilted in her—dizzy with the warm glide of her, the clench of her muscles. “Hades,” she whimpered, canting her head up to his.

“I’m here,” he gasped, “I’m here.”

He was losing himself in her.

He hardly knew where she started and he began—her pleasure was just as, if not _more_ important than his own, sliding out of her entirely before taking her to the very brink. She shuddered, limp and pleading in his arms. His thrusts grew quick, sharp snaps of his hip into her, driving such blessed noises from her, noises which would haunt him the rest of his days, wanting only to drive them out of her again and _again._

He was close—but he would see her reach her pleasure first, and he fucked her with shallow thrusts, angling upwards, attentive to her every whimper and shiver, movements growing fast and ragged on her front.

“Come undone for me,” he pleaded in her ear, “come, my dear, come for me.”

She clenched around him, impossibly tight, nigh inextricable, crying out with the ecstacy of it. He couldn’t fight it anymore, bucking into her in helpless spasms, scarcely able to muffle his shout— “ _Perseph—_ “ in her shoulder, filling her with his spend.

And then the world was still.

Silent and contemplative.

He undid the charm on her wrists, and she cuddled back into him, her arms drawing over his, fingers tangling together. There was a sheen of sweat on silken skin now—he’d fulfilled one such promise, at least.

“You said something,” Kotori whispered, “when you came.”

“Did I?” he said absently, far more interested in watching goosebumps rise across her flushed skin as he exhaled.

She nodded, resolute. “You did. What did you say?”

She turned in his arms, those sapphire eyes meeting his. Her hair was a wild tangle, cheeks scarlet with the heady flush of afterglow.

He kissed her, long, slow. Taking his time.

“I’ll tell you later,” he promised. “Later.”

She frowned, unsatisfied. But she kissed him, a smile curving on the bow of her lips.

“Happy Starlight,” she beamed before adding, “or whatever the hell it is on this star.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at her, feeling his eyes crinkle in genuine mirth. “Happy Starlight, hero,” he whispered.

Regardless of all that came to pass—of all that _would_ come to pass—

At least he had given her this.

One last gift before the end of everything.

**Author's Note:**

> [my carrd.](https://thepapernautilus.carrd.co/)


End file.
